Asymptote
by The Legend of Chocolate
Summary: [One-Shot] They're getting closer, and they're still miles away, but the possibility that they'll get there makes it worth it. - DracoLeanne *for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Round 3 (Rarepairs)*


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

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**Asymptote**

_Harry Potter – Rated: T – English – Hurt/Comfort & Romance – Draco M. & Leanne_

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He's not who he used to be.

_Draco Malfoy._ Simply uttering that name used to elicit vastly different reactions from different houses. The Gryffindors would grit their teeth in fury, unconscious to the reflexive clenching of their fists. The Ravenclaws, erudite as ever, would roll their eyes and rattle off some gibberish along the lines of flawed logic. The Slytherins would either revere him as their role model or glare at him with eyes radiating cold, venomous jealousy. The Hufflepuffs – well, who cared about them anyway?

Today, instead of swaggering down the corridors flanked by his companions Crabbe and Goyle, he traipses with every step aiming to devitalise. All too often, he sequesters himself within the tome-walled labyrinth of the Room of Requirement, racking his brains frantically for a plausible method of repairing that darned Vanishing Cabinet.

He's just so, so tired of looking for a deus ex machina and having to acquiesce to failure every time.

.

.

.

She's not who she used to be.

_Leanne Fortescue_. It was a name shrouded by resplendence and mystique, whispering tales spun in incarceration. It was redolent of rashly murmured secrets exchanged over the slick sweat coating warm bedcovers; of the slightest trace of vanity; of promises meant to be kept shattering along with relationships long lost; and most of all, of whipping through the summer air on a broomstick, unencumbered by the fear of falling, knowing without a doubt that her closest friend would always be there to catch her if she did.

Today, her friendship with Katie can be summed up in a nutshell as a rubber band, stretched too thin for her to be certain of their closeness anymore. There have been far too many pointless arguments; far too many nights of falling asleep with minds clouded by resentment.

She's just so, so tired of watching it warily, hoping desperately that it won't snap.

.

.

.

Two lacklustre souls wandering the halls of Hogwarts – the only wonder is that they didn't come across each other earlier.

She first comes across him in a sixth-floor boy's bathroom. The clattering of heavy, frantic footsteps resound around the empty corridor as she dashes toward the door, pale hand instinctively reaching for the wand stowed away in her robes.

_-"I heard a boy crying in there, Leanne, and I didn't know who else to go to–"-_

The door is locked, and a self-censored curse aimed at the obstinate obstacle escapes her lips as her fingers fumble for her wand.

_-"Yeah, the boy's bathroom on the sixth floor, somewhere near where the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy is on the seventh–"-_

Within seconds, she whips it out, and a silent _Alohomora_ flittering across her mind is followed by the expected _click_ of a successful job. Without pausing to acknowledge her feat, she strides briskly into the bathroom, blatantly ignoring the fact that it was a bathroom meant for _males_ and exuding the uncompromising aura befitting of a Prefect.

_-"He was talking to someone too, and I bet he's a Slytherin, judging by how he basically insulted Hufflepuff's name, but you can handle a discriminative brat, can't you, Leanne?"-_

The sound of footsteps abruptly ceases as she stops short before the first row of cubicles, mouth involuntarily falling agape in transfixion by the scene unfolding before her.

Out of all the Slytherins that have crossed her mind throughout her journey to the bathroom, _he_ was the last person she expected to see.

.

.

.

His body is wrecked by erratic convulsions. His alabaster-white hands, clutching the edge of the sink as if it is a lifeline, are the only things keeping him from collapsing into a heap on the ground from sheer exhaustion. Several crumpled-up towels, disturbed by the rapid spasms of his shuddering body and soaked by the perennial rainfall of heartfelt tears, flutter to the floor in a silent descent, where they lie, forlornly forgotten.

Hovering in the air next to him with an ethereal lightness is a blue spectre. Startled, its eyes fringed by glasses fall onto Leanne, and with an agonising yowl, it emanates a bright, otherworldly glow and ducks behind the sink.

Pearlescent tears run fast and free down his blood-suffused face, and in that single heart-stopping moment, his bloodshot eyes flicker upwards to meet hers in the water-streaked mirror.

They barely register shock he swivels around, the incessant gurgling of water drowning out the swishing of his robes and the nearly feral hisses escaping his gritted teeth.

"_Malfoy_."

"_Fortescue_."

She's perfectly composed, standing before him with her head cocked to the side and her wand poised at the ready.

The duel commences.

.

.

.

He swiftly sends a Stunning Spell whizzing toward her, only for her to deflect the incandescent red sparks with an expertly constructed Shield Charm. The teenager growls in frustration, one hand tangled in his platinum-blonde tresses while the other trembles uncontrollably as multi-hued bolts shot from the tip of his wand.

"One Prefect to another, you're pretty good," she comments.

Beads of perspiration dribble down his forehead to frame his face tinted grey from a distinct lack of vitamin D. "You saw none of what happened just now," he snarls. Ice flows in all directions, efficiently coating the waterlogged floor in a thin, yet sturdy sheet of ice.

She melts it with a blasé flick of her wand, illuminating the now-puddle of water with a flavescent glow. "Yeah, sure, Malfoy. I've had a rough enough day. I'm not interested in your personal affairs. So if you'd just stop being an immature _kid_–"

Chocolate brown and ice grey collide, and the contrast between the two is visceral and palpable, a thrumming sensation of conflict. However, lacing the clash between light and darkness is something else, something intangible and indiscernible that slips from her grasp every time she tries to decipher it…

_(Can it be understanding? No, it can't be. It's impossible for a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff to understand one another.)_

.

.

.

_Opposites attract._ It's a scientific concept that has, somewhere along the line, been transformed into a cliché that now plagues the world of romantic novels. A diehard cynic masking her inner kindness, she has always dismissed this as a ridiculous fetish of romantics… until now.

Ever since that fateful night in the bathroom, the place of flooded tiles has become the site of their nightly rendezvous. He is a cold, unfriendly and quintessential boy, and she is a cold, friendly-upon-acquaintance and bordering-on-loquacious girl. They are polar opposites and what _should_ have happened was an instant repulsion.

But where there is ingress, there is egress, and where there is light, there is darkness.

They are superficially polar opposites inexorably drawn together by the stark similarity hidden beneath the surface.

.

.

.

His speeches are extemporaneous and tinged with a prominent acerbity. He speaks, stumbling slightly over his words as he does so, of a 'job' he was assigned and his fear of failure. (He avoids the subject of the 'job' itself, and she graciously decides not to push the matter.)

Her speeches reduce the once sharp, unwavering lilt of her tone to an enervate lisp. She speaks, indifferent façade temporarily faltering as she does so, of her unsteady friendship with Katie and her fear of losing her best friend. (She avoids the subject of exactly how they ended up like this, and he waves it off flippantly.)

If there is a person she dares to confess her flaws to, it is him.

If there is a person he dares to confess his darkest desires to, it is her.

After all, they have nothing to do with each other in school. The spell will break when the clock strikes midnight and the slate will be wiped clean, only to be once again tainted by the mélange of their problems the following night.

.

.

.

He becomes her only comfort in the twilight of darkness soon after the cursed necklace sends Katie into a comatose state. He's awkward at first – clearly he hasn't needed to comfort anyone before – but he gradually warms up to her. Towels are constantly pressed to her face in efforts to stem the flow of tears. Well-placed expletives are hurled her way in hopes of snapping her out of her melancholy.

He remains by her side each night, perhaps not comforting her physically or even in any manner that can possibly be considered conventional, but his presence faintly assuages her pain.

Occasionally, she catches him gazing off into the distance with an unfathomable expression gracing his face, carefully devoid of all emotion. But whenever she enquires about it, he brushes it off with a hoarse, "Forget about it."

She's teetering on the precipice of depression, wishing that she could just dream and dream and dream and never have to awaken to the harshness of reality, and he's the only thing anchoring her to herself.

.

.

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She can't believe it.

He, Draco Malfoy, the one she trusted the most, is the one who endangered Katie's life _and_ assisted in the murder of Professor Dumbledore.

Grey. It is the colour of ashes; of grief; and above all, of the eyes she tries so hard to forget.

Grey. _Grey_. What a terrible, terrible word.

The boy's bathroom on the sixth floor soon falls into decrepitude with no one else to frequent it.

.

.

.

She tells herself she'll never see him again. The war is over, the Dark Lord has fallen, and the Malfoy name has been tarnished.

He tells himself he'll never see her again. The war is over, the Dark Lord has fallen, and he doesn't know if she even survived.

They're lies, of course. Lies are the only way to maintain a healthy relationship.

.

.

.

Their paths converge once again on a surprisingly cool summer day outside the toilets in a restaurant situated at a normal London street. She's clad in her usual formal work attire, crisp and immaculate from head to toe with her dark brown hair professionally swept up into a neat chignon, and he's donning a sloppy assemble of Muggle attire that, on the contrary, serves to accentuate his dashing features.

"Malfoy," she says, eyes quickly scanning his appearance.

"Fortescue," he responds, eyes twinkling with that Machiavellian glint she came to adore.

There are no hints of resentment or of the past laced with deception they have long buried behind them. The war ended seven years ago, and they have both moved on.

.

.

.

They won't give up.

Slowly but surely, the space separating them is getting smaller. They know it will never close completely, and while it's difficult, they can accept that.

The impulsive kiss on the cheek that sends him reeling, the one half-smile she manages to put on his face, the way she makes him _feel_ – it all makes it worth it. Neither have ever uttered the three taboo words, but the possibility that one day they will makes it worth it.

They're getting closer, and they're still miles away, but the possibility that they'll get there makes it worth it.

After all, opposites attract, even for asymptotes.

(_They're_ worth it, and that's what makes the infinity bearable.)

_._

_._

_._

_**Fin.**_

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_A/N: I honestly think I've discovered my new OTP.  
Also, Prefect!Leanne is the only part of canon I actually changed (and even then it's a possibility, since there's no evidence to refute it). The rest fits in relatively smoothly. Leanne's personality is completely made up, by the way._

_Done for: The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition (Round 3: Rarepairs)_

_Prompts used: towels, maybe, maybe not and Dialogue: "Forget about it."_

_[Asymptote: __n. _A line that continually approaches a given curve but does not meet it at any finite distance.]

**~TLoC**

**{Caerphilly Catapults Beater 2}**


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